Not a Blank Canvas
by balfies
Summary: At first glance, Vincent Crabbe is the heavy duty body guard of Draco Malfoy, but no one thinks quite like him. Friends, family, school and enemies are more blurred than they seem in his sixth year at Hogwarts... R&R - Rated K-plus for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1  Vincent

Vincent Crabbe awoke with a start, the afternoon sunlight pouring out from under the door, blinding him momentarily. Wiping the drool from his face, he glanced at his father's old wristwatch, groaned, and tumbled out of bed. He tried to remember the dream he'd had, but all that came to mind was a blurred image of Professor Binns being offered Spellotape by a small house elf. Vincent realised in his blearily-minded state that he only had a week left of summer holidays before he returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year.

Vincent had spent the entirety of the holidays practising Quidditch – the wizarding sport on broomsticks – and occasionally peeking through his books to attempt the set homework, before realising it was far too difficult to accomplish. Normally, he did his homework with his best friend Gregory Goyle, who, although slightly less intelligent that he, could at least cheer him up. Greg was in the same class for everything with Vincent, both of them did their homework simultaneously and together they had managed to pull through the year with a lot of guesswork and cheating. Vincent had managed to achieve three O.W.L.s in the previous year and was on his way to becoming a Security Troll trainer for the wizarding bank, Gringott's, with contacts from his father.

Vincent never saw much of his father. Hewitt Crabbe was a very busy man, who oversaw the safety of the maximum security vaults in Gringott's, though never performed the spells himself. Hewitt often went around to the other major wizarding banks to spy on their techniques, a job he was surprisingly good at for such a heavily built man. He was strong, broad and intimidating, softened slightly by the same flat nose as his son's. When he wasn't travelling the various wizarding banks around the world, he would be at home, bragging about the lax security of the four main competitor banks in comparison to Gringott's. From his many reports, Vincent could only remember that one bank, situated somewhere in Malaysia, had the equivalent of 750 Galleons stolen every other week. Hewitt had never taken an interest in his son until it came up that he wanted to go into the bank-security business himself. Hewitt wasn't the most intelligent man, but that was how Vincent liked him. Crabbe could tolerate his father – it was his sister who gave him the most trouble.

Shirley, five years out of Hogwarts, was the brightest Crabbe in living memory. The Sorting Hat had barely touched her black hair before declaring "Ravenclaw!" to the school. Painfully obnoxious, Shirley was always keen to share her findings, with confusing facts and figures that made the rest of the family's heads ache for a good hour afterwards. During holidays, she would shut herself in her room, memorising textbooks and spells, before heading out to work in one of the Irish wizarding universities as a lecturer. Vincent could never fully forgive her for having all the brains of the family, but he needed physical strength more than he needed Transfiguration for his future career, so he wasn't too bothered.

Vincent slid down the polished banisters and shuffled over to his favourite room – the kitchen. There, his mother stood, absentmindedly twisting her wand so that a loganberry cake was taking shape. Vincent loved watching his mother baking, though he didn't like to admit it. With a last flick of her wand which sent eggs plummeting into the china bowl, Adalyn Crabbe looked up at her stout son fondly.

'Juice?'

'Mmph,' Vincent grunted in reply. 

She turned around to the drinks cabinet, smiling to herself. She and her son didn't need words to have a conversation – talking had never been one of Vincent's strong points. She was not overjoyed with her son's O.W.L. results, but she knew that pressing him about them would not solve anything. Returning to him with a large goblet of pumpkin juice in hand, she watched as Vincent gulped it down eagerly, locked eyes with her, nodded briefly as a way of thanks and left the room.

*

Vincent leapt up the stairs two at a time, eager to get another day's practise in before his sister came home. Pulling his broomstick off the wall with a little too much enthusiasm, he tore out of the house excitedly. His broom, a Cleansweep 420, had been a fourteenth birthday present from his father, and Vincent liked it very much. It wasn't as fast as his friends', but Vincent was very dept at controlling it. He hoped to make the SLytherin Quidditch team this year, and he'd been working hard to achieve his goal. He liked the thought of being a Keeper, though he suspected with his build he'd be cast as a Beater. So, just in case, he'd been practising both positions surreptitiously charming pomegranates towards him as he either caught them or hit them away with a tree branch.

After a few hours of smashing unfortunate pomegranates into squishy chunks, Vincent stomped inside happily, quite contented with his day's work. He quickly scanned the kitchen, and found a cupcake which sparkled slightly. Grinning, he stuffed it hungrily into his mouth. Flying was hard work, he'd decided, and sugary incentives were a necessity. He passed a scrap of parchment on the table, and pocketed it for later – he'd let Shirley handle whatever his mother had told him to do.

Vincent gave a small start when he heard the front door slam and his sister's piercing voice reached his ears.

'Vincent! You there?'

He sighed and groggily dragged his feet into the hallway, where his sister stood, hand on her hip impatiently and jaw jutted out similar to her father. Although she was considerably shorter than Vincent, Shirley had always seemed tall. Her mother had always said this was because she had an imposing personality, which Vincent agreed with utterly. Shirley's straight black hair reached down her back, and was very much like a whip when applied correctly. For her job at Huckleberry-Hollace University in Ireland, she wore yellow and magenta robes, which looked fine on all other lecturers but dreadful on her. In fact, everything looked horrible on Shirley. Vincent had often wondered why his devastatingly intelligent sister had never been bothered to conjure some nice clothes – he was sure girls like that sort of thing - most of the giggly Hogwarts girls were obsessed with clothes. Despite this, Shirley had somehow managed to get herself a boyfriend. Vincent had been quite impressed with this feat, and had innocently asked her what was wrong with him, something he considered one of his lesser judgements of character and one of her greater moments of fury. Shirley's boyfriend was named Hamilton Springs, but, despite his holiday-like name, was a very brisk, no-nonsense man, who always wore starched white shirts with ridiculous red bow ties and cloaks. Hamilton had a bizarre habit of twitching his head this way and that when talking, sending his fluffy red Moustache into a frenzy (Vincent was convinced the Moustache was capitalised – it sounded that way). Vincent was always bemused to see Hamilton's Moustache cheerily dancing up at him, quite oblivious to the stern face it was attached to. When angered, Hamilton would get redder in the face and would shake violently, sending shivers up and down his oblivious Moustache. Hamilton was a famous History of Magic professor at Huckleberry-Hollace University, and his research had crossed with Shirley's area of expertise – Charms. The two had fallen madly in love, much to Vincent's disgust, and had barely been out of sight since.

Hamilton stepped inside the front door briskly, his Moustache waving contentedly up at Vincent, who suppressed a laugh, and greeted the Moustache inside his head. Hamilton marched over and snatched Vincent's hand and shook it so slightly that Vincent hardly noticed it moving.

'How are you, Vince?' Vincent hated being called Vince.

Hamilton attempted to smile, but it looked like he was sneezing slowly. Vincent grimaced in return, but his mockery turned into a snort when he saw the Moustache bouncing on Hamilton's lip. Mistaking his snort for a greeting, Hamilton turned back to Shirley.

'How old is Vince now? Fourteen?'

'Yes, love,' Shirley replied vaguely, searching through her handbag for something.

'Sixteen,' Vincent replied through gritted teeth.

'Still under Dumbledore's rule?'

'Yes.'

'I wouldn't know.' Vincent knew what was coming next. 'I was home schooled,' Hamilton finished, pompously.

Vincent rolled his eyes as Hamilton's back in disgust. It was useless trying to encourage Hamilton not to tell him every time they met that he'd been home schooled by his (very patient) parents. Vincent was sick to the teeth of it, and wished the man had gone to Hogwarts, so he could have had Peeves throw Engorgement Potion-filled water bombs at him.

'Where're Mum and Dad?' asked Shirley.

'Dunno. They left this note, though.'

'Oh,' said Shirley, her face falling as she quickly scanning the parchment Vincent handed her.

_Shirley, Vincent and Hamilton if you're there._

_Dad and I are out – back soon._

_The Malfoys are coming over for dinner later – make sure you two dress nicely and CLEAN YOUR ROOMS! Please keep them entertained – perhaps show Draco your new dress robes, Vincent? – until your father and I get home._

_- Mother_

'Fantastic,' muttered Vincent absent-mindedly to himself.


	2. Chapter 2  Malfoy

Contrary to popular belief, Draco and Vincent did not have the most easy-going relationship. They got along just fine when Greg was there to balance everything out, but without his muscle and comedic value, the pair was quite awkward in each other's company. They never mentioned their differences that caused minor arguments, but they never fully ignored them either. Draco tended to think himself better off then everyone, and never failed to point this out to the annoyance of Vincent. Draco's obsessed with pure-blood and Slytherinism and his habit of constantly boasting about everything was a serious strain on their friendship and close proximity to each other. While Draco spoke proudly without thought for the consequences, Vincent preferred to weigh up the pros and cons and reach a decision slowly. Vincent knew Draco thought he was tedious. Vincent didn't like thinking fast – it meant not considering all the options and usually taking the worst one. Vincent had also realised that Draco didn't really see him as a human with acute feelings, more as a bodyguard. In fact, the only person apart from his mother who thought he had feelings was Greg, who was surprisingly sensitive.

Vincent's green eyes locked with his sister's deep blue. Shirley sent a couple of cleaning charms in the general direction of their rooms, smirking slightly. The siblings swept into the dining room to set the table for whatever grand dinner the Malfoys would receive this time, leaving Hamilton peering at the finer points of a particularly ugly portrait.

After half an hour of Vincent lovingly placing cutlery on the table with Shirley shrieking charms to correct whatever he did wrong, their parents arrived home. Soon, the kitchen was drenched in fantastical odours of armoured veal, multicoloured herbs, simmering potions in pewter pots and wondrous sugary deserts. Vincent's father seated himself onto a squashy mustard couch with a firewhisky in his hand, eyes closed as Hamilton breathlessly related his eventless week. Just as Vincent was embellishing the details of a particularly narrow pomegranate save he'd made during the day to his patient mother, the doorbell rang violently.

The house went silent, save for the whistling of the blue pots and pans on the stove. Adalyn strode over to the front door slowly, a strained smile marring her otherwise beautiful face. Vincent half expected a clap of thunder to accompany the pale family that stepped into the doorway dramatically, but the weather outside revealed only the lazy notes from a passing bird.

'Good evening, Lucius. Narcissa. Draco,' said Adalyn curtly. 'I trust you had a pleasant journey?'

'Our horses will need a place to stay while we are here,' Lucious murmured silkily. 'Do you perhaps have a stable for them?'

'Yes, of course. I'm sure they'd be happy in the barn out back,' Vincent's mother replied, louder so as to break the tension.

Lucius smirked a thankyou. The Malfoys' main form of communication was smirking, Vincent had decided. If Draco was overjoyed, he smirked. If confused, a smirk would plague his pointed face. When angered a smirk would storm across his eyes. A smirk would mark Draco's sadnesses, too. Vincent wondered if it were physically possible for a Malfoy not to smirk. Now smirk didn't look like a word any more. Damnit.

"Hey, Vince," Draco said, smirking.

Again with the Vince! His name was Vincent. Did people not get that?

"Hey Drake," he replied, using Draco's least favourite nickname. Draco raised an eyebrow.

Hamilton bumbled over to break the tension.

"Mr Malfoy, Mrs Malfoy, what delight it is to see you once more," he said in a no-nonsense voice.

Draco turned to look at Hamilton. The Moustache caught his attention and flapped half-heartedly as its owner shook hands. Draco turned around to face Vincent again.

"What a 'stache," he muttered. Vincent sniggered.

"Seen Greg?" he asked.

"Yeah, a couple times," Draco said in an uninterested voice, pushing past him.

"How is he?"

"Good."

"He say much?"

"The usual."

"You do anything?"

"Why don't you go and ask Greg yourself if you're so in love with him?" Draco turned and smirked.

It was his provoking smirk. Vincent sighed.

"Seriously, you two spend so much time together."

Vincent paused before speaking.

"We're friends," he said carefully.

"I think the lines between bromance and romance are blurring more than you think, Vincey-boy."

Draco shook his head with an air of mock concern, and slapped Vincent on the back. Vincent glared at him, then went into the living room. Draco followed, laughing.

Their fathers were in the corner of the room, heads bent in, speaking very quickly. Lucius' eyes were distant, full of concern at what Hewitt was saying. Vincent concluded that they were probably discussing work business: they wouldn't talk about the other thing with Hamilton in the room… not unless it was urgent. There. A touch to their forearms simultaneously. Vincent heaved a sigh: dark stuff was going to go down this year.

*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*

_Wow. It's been a year and a day since I added to this. Better than I remembered. Hmmm. I'll try to update it occasionally, yeah? Now that I'm *properly* on this website and I get how it runs, it'll be easier to do. R&R for more chapters and to increase my happiness levels, chickens._


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